Chapter 4 #2
“Alright. I can do that.” Her eyes went bright again. She looked away, blinking hard. “Thank you for not judging me.”
“There’s nothing to judge. You’ve survived impossible circumstances and created a good life for yourself and your son. That’s not failure. That’s triumph.”
She wiped her eyes and rose, taking her empty plate over to the sink. “I should get back to work. The sprinkler issue won’t fix itself.”
“May I help with that as well?”
“You don’t need to…” With a shake of her head, she turned around, leaning against the counter, facing me. “Alright. Yes. You can help.”
I stood. “I’ll clean up while you collect your tools.”
By the time I’d finished the dishes, she’d returned, carrying a toolbox that looked older than Corey.
“Ready?” she asked.
I followed her outside, across the lawn to the east garden where Jim had mentioned the problem. She knelt beside the irrigation control box, setting her toolbox nearby.
I juggled with the box’s latch, opening it, peering inside at the well-worn tools.
“What do you need? I’ll be your…assistant.”
Her lips jerked up on the corners before she smoothed them. “Hand me the flathead screwdriver. The big one.”
I found it and passed it to her. Our fingers brushed. She pulled away first, focusing on the screws holding the control box closed.
“The zones are probably fine,” she said. “Usually it’s the valve itself or the solenoid. My foster father was great. He let me follow him around while he tinkered. Fixing plumbing problems and even wiring the occasional outlet. Thankfully, he didn’t get impatient with my endless questions.”
“You were curious, like Corey.”
Her snort rang out. “I never saw it that way, but you’re right. Curious.”
She opened the box and studied the wiring. I watched her face as she worked, enjoying the way her brows drew together in concentration, how she bit her lower lip when she was thinking through a problem.
“Can you turn on zone three?” she asked. “The switch is on the left.”
I flipped it. Nothing happened.
“Thought so.” She traced a wire with one finger. “The solenoid’s getting power but the valve’s not opening. It’s probably stuck.” She looked up at me. “This is going to get messy. You might want to stand back.”
“I don’t mind messy.”
She shrugged, grabbed a wrench from the toolbox. “It’s your funeral.”
I knelt beside her, close enough to hand her tools but far enough back to avoid crowding her. She smelled like coffee and something floral. Shampoo, maybe. Her hair had escaped its ponytail in several places and brushed her face.
“Adjustable wrench,” she said.
I placed it in her palm, our skin touching. This time she didn’t pull away immediately.
She worked for several minutes, loosening fittings, checking connections, and muttering to herself about water pressure and debris buildup.
“There,” she said finally. “The valve was stuck partially closed. Probably sediment. Maybe now we won’t get wet.” She turned the valve manually, and water started flowing through the line. “Try the switch again.”
I flipped it. The sprinklers in zone three sputtered to life.
“Perfect.” She sat back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dirt. “One down, one to go.”
We moved to the second problem zone. She diagnosed the issue, a cracked fitting this time, and replaced it from spare parts she found in the shed.
I handed her tools as she needed them, learning how she worked. When she asked for the channel locks, I knew which ones. When she needed the Teflon tape, it was already in my hand.
My wings kept doing things I couldn’t control. Spreading slightly when she leaned closer. Rustling when she bit her lip. Folding tight when her scent hit me.
“You’re good at this,” I said, watching her tighten the new fitting.
“I’ve had practice. Like I said, my foster father was great. Kind about it. And you learn to be resourceful when you can’t afford to hire someone every time something breaks.” She tested the connection, nodding in satisfaction. “Try the switch.”
The second zone activated right away.
“There we go.” She put her tools away, closed her toolbox, and stood. Mud coated her jeans at the knees, and her shirt had dirt smudges, but she looked more relaxed than I’d seen her all day. “Crisis averted. For now.”
“You’re very capable.”
She glanced at me, then away. “I do what I have to do.”
“No.” I stood as well, my wings shifting. “You do more than that. You solve problems. You take care of people. You make things work when they shouldn’t.” I held her gaze. “Watching you work is impressive.”
Color rose in her cheeks. She looked down at her dirty hands, then back up at me, which made me realize how tiny she was compared to my big frame. All humans were, actually, but this woman seemed more petite and fragile than others.
Yet I knew she was anything but fragile. She was resilient and strong and determined.
I respected her a lot.
Her gaze scanned my own clothing. “We’re both kind of a mess now.”
I glanced down. Kneeling beside her had left mud stains on my pants, and somehow I’d acquired grease on one sleeve.
“I don’t mind one bit,” I said.
Awareness passed between us. The air felt different, charged.
She broke eye contact first, bending to pick up the toolbox. “I should clean up. Get back to the café.”
“Of course.”
We walked back to the manor, stopping for her to put her toolbox inside the shed.
Inside the house, she paused at the bottom of the stairs. “I want to say thanks again.”
“Any time.”
She gave me a small smile and strode up the stairs.
I stood in the entryway, watching her continue up until she reached the landing and disappeared from view.
My tail kept twitching.
I wanted to solve all her problems. Every single one. The irrigation, the café deliveries, Corey’s questions about fathers, and her worry that she wasn’t enough.
The intensity of that desire should alarm me, but it felt inevitable. Like parts of me were recognizing something that had always been there, waiting for me to notice.
I looked down at my muddy clothes, at the grease stain that would require serious effort to remove.
And I didn’t mind being dirty one bit.